They say a closed mouth doesn’t get fed

As I write these words my stomach feels full

Death is never an easy experience

It comes and goes as it pleases

I think back to the many nights

I spent on my bedroom floor pleading

Asking for change and healing

Tears were my words, spilling so fluently

Mouth as dry as the skin on my hands

From constantly drying them there was no tissue

No loving arms for me to fold into promising comfort

So I picked up this pen I found a scratch piece of paper

Remembering the words from the late Maya Angelou

I began to write words that sounded good

Images I had only seen became reality

The times I felt like crying I wrote

The days that seemed to run together

Were deciphered by dates

April 24, 2010 the day my mother was no longer

Mommy could not be called with expectation of an answer

Just like you I lost my ability to speak

Without fear of crying this pen made me stronger

June 19, 2010 the day my brother was no longer

Just an arms length away pestering me

I would no longer be able to watch basketball with you

This pen made me stronger pushing it pushed me

To re-discover my love for words they never left

Today I write from experiences that no longer sting

From experiences that linger without night

ares

 

This pen ended my silence